


And the Gunslinger

by Isa1187



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Background Gabriel Reyes/Jack Morrison, Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Blackwatch Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Dad Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-23 16:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8334382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isa1187/pseuds/Isa1187
Summary: Gabriel Reyes did not sign up to deal with an angry seventeen-year-old wannabe cowboy.





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> After the "and the gunslinger followed" voiceline came out, I couldn't stop thinking about Gabe recruiting angry teenage Jesse McCree. 
> 
> The Overwatch timeline is confusing, and I'm making a couple blatant changes. Mercy's official age seems incompatible with when she apparently joined Overwatch, but I needed her for plot reasons, so in this fic she's a couple years older than McCree rather than a couple years younger. For almost everything else, I'm going by the excellent fan-made timeline [here](http://overgosh.tumblr.com/post/147524579927/overgoshs-overwatch-timeline-the-information)!

The newest blackwatch agent refused to wear the regulation uniform, and Gabriel Reyes did not have time to deal with this shit. He looked at the kid blankly across his desk, taking in the cowboy hat and spurs and the fucking revolver - what was this, the 1800s? - and sighed. 

The kid glared back with all the wounded resentment that an angry seventeen year old could muster, not quite managing to hide his trepidation.

At least he's a decent shot, Gabe tells himself. At least he hasn't tried to kill anyone since we took him in. He bites back the thought that kept echoing at the edges of his consciousness, that this was a mistake.

“Lose the spurs,” Gabe says, “and the hat.”

The kid somehow deepens his glare and scowls in a way that was probably meant to look menacing but comes across as sulky. “But it's my _hat_ ,” he says, clutching the hat to his head protectively. 

“The hat and the spurs,” Gabe repeats, holding a hand out expectantly. 

The kid shuffles back a step, fear and defiance and misery fighting for space in his expression. 

Gabe sighs, tries a different tactic. “Look, kid -”

“Jesse,” the kid interrupts angrily.

“Jesse,” Gabe continues, raising a hand placatingly. “Blackwatch works undercover. The more recognizable you are, the more you're a liability.” He gestures to Jesse’s entire outfit, from his ridiculous hat to his pointless spurs. 

Jesse doesn't bother to argue, just shakes his head and takes another step back, glaring as though Gabe had just threatened to murder a kitten. He scowls and opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak, maybe _fuck Overwatch_ or _fuck you_ or - and Gabe braces himself for this possibility - _just fucking send me to prison_. But instead Jesse scowls and stares Gabe down as he backs out of the office, keeping his composure long enough to turn and walk back down the hallway. From the sound of it, Jesse takes off at a run once he’s sure he’s out of sight. 

This is not what Gabe signed up for. Soldiers are one thing. They have discipline, even the ones that are former criminals. They’re willing to bend to authority, compromise, follow instructions. They don’t despise the organization they work for. A thought that he doesn’t quite manage to push away: they aren’t seventeen fucking years old with nowhere to run to and nothing to lose, with a fake birthday and a fake name and too much anger to fit inside their skin. 

He takes a sip of coffee that’s almost bitterer than he is and contemplates the open door. Angry and young and ostentatious as Jesse is, Gabe’s going to have to send him on assignment soon. There’s no room in Blackwatch’s budget for deadweights.


	2. Chapter 2

Jesse’s been weighing on his mind for the last couple days - since he was recruited weeks ago, really, but especially for the last couple days. The self-described gunslinger has been spending his time at the Watchpoint stomping around, glaring at everything and everyone, leaving verbal barbs in people and dents in walls that had done nothing to offend him. He eats during off-hours, swiping leftovers from the kitchen and eating them in odd corners where he thinks he can't be watched, as though he expects to be reprimanded for surviving. 

The combination of skulking and storming strikes Gabe as odd. It's as though Jesse can't decide whether he wants to be the most noticeable thing in the room or disappear from sight completely, like he thinks hiding is his safest option, but he doesn't know what to do with himself if he isn't being loud and noticeable. There are moments, occasionally, when Jesse seems to forget that he hates where he is and who he's with, always when Jesse doesn't think anyone important is watching. 

When Jesse was first brought in, Gabe kept an eye on the infirmary security feed as the doctors patched up his bullet holes and bruises and cracked bones. Some of the injuries were from Deadlock, but most were from Overwatch, before they realized they were dealing with a kid, before Jesse became Blackwatch’s problem. Gabe doesn’t really expect Jesse to assault a doctor, but he’s been wrong before and he’d rather not end up cleaning pools of blood off the floor.

Jesse was handed off to the newest medical employee once the serious wounds were dealt with, an enthusiastic and brilliant doctor called Angela whose youth was still causing its fair share of surprise among the other employees, although she has been nothing but competent. She smiled at him, bright and confident and automatic, and gestured toward the bandages. There was no audio, but she must have been telling him how to avoid ripping his stitches and when to have the bandages changed and how long to expect healing to take. Gabe supposed that no one bothered to tell her where Jesse came from, because there was no glint of suspicion in her eyes, and she didn’t stand cautiously out of his reach the way the other doctors did. Angela finished her instructions, and Jesse responded with - what? A joke? A flirtation? A thank-you? - because Angela chuckled, her ponytail bobbing, raising one hand to cover her mouth as though the mirth was unauthorized. Her smooth, automatic smile was replaced by a softer one that crinkled the corner of her eyes and followed Jesse as she waved him out of the infirmary. The camera just caught his own expression as he turned toward the door, and his eyes were bright with surprised cheerfulness, as though he's pleased that he made someone else laugh. It fades to his customary scowl as he leaves. 

Angela asked about Jesse the next time Gabe went in for a checkup, one of the legacies from the super-soldier program. "How is your day going?", she said with professional politeness as she prepared to draw a blood sample.

Gabe shrugged. "It's about as good as you'd expect," he replied, in what's technically not a lie. He hadn’t outlined his expectations, after all. 

As always, Angela nodded brusquely at his answer, and instructed him to make a fist. Gabe gazed gloomily at the needle as it pierced a vein at the crook of his elbow. 

"The new recruit," she said, "Jesse. Is he one of yours? I thought the higher-ups wanted to slow down recruiting." 

It took Gabe a moment to process the question. He blinked and looked away from the mesmerizing sight of the syringe filling with his own blood, meeting Angela's eyes, a little startled. Angela had never questioned him about Blackwatch before. He assumed that, like many of Overwatch's employees, she prefered not to think about it. He could have given one of the many polite not-quite-lies that he usually directed towards anyone who questioned his budget or mission procedures or recruiting practice, but god, he was tired of avoiding the truth and justifying himself and apologizing for things that he can't fix. So he shrugged wearily and gave the first true answer since his initial arguments with Jack and Ana. 

"He was Deadlock," Gabe says, and keeping his voice even took too much effort. "We busted some of their ops, but a couple guys kept showing up spitting angry, so," he reached up to a rub at a headache forming at his temple, "we took them in. Jack's orders. One of them turned out to be a kid they taught to murder." Gabe glared helplessly at nothing in particular as his voice twisted on the last phrase. "Yeah, he's one of mine now. It's a chance. It's better than tossing him into some pit he'd never get out of." 

Angela nodded and hummed thoughtfully, her eyes clear and distant, but didn’t respond as she finished the check-up and told him someone would contact him if anything had changed. Gabe found himself wondering what she suspected and what she knew and where she learned it, and made a mental note to point her out to Jack and Ana. They'll need to raise her security clearance, preferably before she gets herself in trouble by knowing things she shouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of convenience, Angela's a couple years older than McCree in this fic. It's unclear exactly when she joins Overwatch in canon, but I'm assuming it's a couple months before McCree's recruited. 
> 
> Updates are likely to come in smallish chunks every few days. I'm largely posting this as I write it, so please let me know if I made any mistakes with grammar or anything. I do have a plot planned out, and I know approximately where I want this fic to end, but getting there is going to involve a lot of flashbacks and some experimentation with style. Hopefully it'll work out. 
> 
> I'm on Tumblr as thecaryatid, if you want to talk.


	3. Chapter 3

The night of Jesse's "recruitment" was crisp, the air holding the characteristic chill of a desert evening.

Gabe shivers and rubs the tiredness from his eyes, the desert wind cutting through his jacket as he leans against an outside wall of Watchpoint: Phoenix. The watchpoint is well outside of phoenix, technically speaking, deep enough in the desert that the stars shine clearer and brighter than diamonds against the comforting darkness of the night sky. Only a soft glow on the horizon interrupts the starlight. Gabriel squints toward it, trying to make out the constellations through the haze of light pollution. He automatically searches for Cygnus, although the swan has probably been set for hours. 

His phone rings for the third time since he woke up in this morning, and he grimaces, glaring at the familiar number of Jack's office back at Watchpoint: Gibraltar. It's tempting to let it go to voicemail once again, but there's only so long he can delay this conversation, and it's for the best if Jack isn't completely pissed off before it even begins. Reluctantly, he picks up. 

"Morrison," Gabe says, voice heavy with exhaustion. There's no point in pretending he doesn't know what the call's about, but he falls silent anyway, waiting for his _commanding officer_ to make the first remark. 

"You haven't sent a report on the op, Reyes. What's going on?" Jack begins, annoyance in his tone. At least he doesn't mention the two ignored calls. Gabe feels mingled regret and relief that Jack doesn't ask how he's doing.

"It's coming," Gabe says. "There were complications." _Complications_ , he repeats to himself, comparing the impersonal word to the reality of the fledgling criminal locked in one of the Watchpoint's interrogation rooms.

On the end of the line he hears the start of a quickly-suppressed sigh. Jack must be trying not to show his exasperation. Despite himself, Gabe's mouth twitches upwards at the familiar sound. "Did your team pull through fine?", Jack asks. "Should I clear out a few hospital rooms for you?" Gabe doesn't miss the fond exasperation at his habit of charging past the front lines of any battle. 

"It's still a solid strategy," he replies, amused. "And you're not one to talk, after the last time you had a load of shrapnel picked out of your legs.”

Jack doesn't rise to the bait. "The report, Gabe," he prompts, serious again. "Bringing in some Deadlock nobodies can’t have been a problem, so what's keeping you?"

Gabe glares at the lightening sky. "Like I said, there's been complications. I wasn't sure how to break the news." He pauses, expecting Jack to interrupt with more of his scolding, but the line is silent. "The op went fine. We've got a few wounded agents, nothing too serious. Clean-up'll take longer than expected. We pretty well wrecked Deadlock's main hideout," he says, remembering the splashes of blood and the broken bodies littered among spilled coffee and shattered glass. "Some of them are dead, some of them got handed over to the authorities. They won't be recovering any time soon."

"That all sounds routine," Jack says. "The _report_ , Gabe." 

"Yeah, well. You," - he grinds the word out between his teeth - "Told us to bring in a couple members, find out what they know, toss them into some pit." Deadlock had been more competent than expected, but nothing noteworthy, except for a few guys who managed to get behind Overwatch and harry them from the back. "So we picked off a few flankers. Three of them. One's a hell of a good shot, he's responsible for most of our injuries. The kid must have been shaken up real bad, seeing his gang ripped apart like that. It's a wonder he could shoot straight at all. 

"...The kid?", Jack replies, trepidation in his voice. 

"The _kid_. Not sure exactly how old he is yet. He gave us a name and a birthday that don't match up to any record, and if he's in Deadlock you know his real name must be on some criminal record somewhere. We could drag him into some office, get him fingerprinted and look him up that way, but," he trails off. Once the kid is on the books like that, there's no way to hold onto him. He goes back onto the streets or into some sort of half-broken justice system that doesn't care about the difference between a hardened criminal and a desperate kid who's been taught to kill. 

" _Fuck_." Jack spits the word like it's personally offended him. "What's the name he gave? How old did he say he is?"

"He claims he's named Jesse McCree and he's twenty-three." Gabe barks a bitter laugh. "Fuck me if it's true. The kid's greener than grass. I'd guess sixteen, seventeen at the oldest."

"This is a problem, Gabe. We can't go around tossing minors into interrogation rooms. We'd never hear the end of the court cases." 

"You'd rather I go around _shooting_ them, Morrison? You'd rather leave a pile of dead kids than tarnish your precious _reputation_? I dunno, I don't pay that much attention to how old people are while they're busy shooting at me, but maybe that's just a personal failing, Jack."

"That's not what I meant, Gabe -" Jack's trying to backpedal, but Gabriel cuts him off. 

“Then what did you mean?" Gabe pushes himself away from the wall he's been leaning on, pacing angrily, kicking up clouds of desert dust, fixating on the image of a teenager slumped in one of the interrogation rooms set far below his feet. "What exactly would you have done, Jack? Because I've got wounded agents drugged out of their minds while they wait for medical help, and three locked-up killers who aren't speaking a word of truth, and one of them's a kid that probably never had a choice in the matter, and how _exactly_ do you want me to _make this better_ , Jack?" 

There's silence on the other end of the line, and for a second Gabe wonders if his commander hung up on him. But no, it's just a pause as Jack tries to decide what to say in this situation, falling back on the old standby of ordering his subordinates around. "Figure something out, Gabe." 

He's about to protest - maybe _that's unreasonable_ , or _these were your orders_ or _this is your mess too_ , but Jack cuts him off before he can get the words out. "I'm serious, here. We both know you're not just the best at strategy and fighting and leading a strike team, you're the best at working with stupid situations." 

Gabe stops his pacing and stands, stock still, in the path of the encroaching dawn. "Do we still have that hold on recruiting?"

"Yes." Jack speaks the word as though he's hoping it will shut down an argument that he knows he probably can’t avoid. 

"Blackwatch recruits under the table anyway,” Gabe says. Many of their agents are former criminals, after all, and the U.N. doesn’t sanction more than half of their operations. 

“Don’t even think of it,” Jack says with a hint of desperation in his voice, like he already knows he’s going to lose. 

“I thought I needed to _figure something out_ , Jack. I figured something out. I’m recruiting the kid. If it doesn’t work out it doesn’t work out, but I’m giving him this chance.”

There’s a tired sigh. “This is going to come back to burn you.” 

“I can live with that, Jack. We’ve both made stupider decisions for worse reasons.”

“He might not even accept,” Jack says. 

Gabe doesn’t reply. 

“And you still need to write up that report.” Jack sighs again, softer this time. “...good luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll get to Jesse's POV sometime in the next couple chapters, but for now have some more angsty Reyes. 
> 
> As always, I'm thecaryatid on Tumblr.


	4. Chapter 4

Dawn has broken in earnest by the time Gabe gets himself down to the interrogation room. There's only so long he can put this off, and while attempting to recruit a spitfire-angy kid at some ungodly hour of the morning on ninety minutes of sleep and too much stress and with the sounds of wounded soldiers and the echoes of Jack's anger chasing each other back and forth in his mind, well. Sleeping would only fix one of those things. 

Besides, Gabe knows how he faces decisions: jump in headfirst, commit early, or he'll never convince himself to do what needs to be done. _Reckless_ , Jack calls him, although he knows perfectly well that Gabe weighs his decisions carefully before making them. _Stubborn_ or _Decisive_ would be more accurate. There's no point in waiting around once a decision has been made. There's no point in agonizing over a set of bad options when delaying will change nothing. 

So Gabe takes only a minute to curse quietly to himself, about Jack's straight-laced, holier-than-thou attitude, about his own foolishness - what sort of black ops leader can afford a bleeding heart? - about Overwatch's inability to let well enough alone.

He walks the scant hundred meters to the Watchpoint's nearest entrance. His feet don't quite drag in the dirt, any onlooker would be surprised to see Gabriel Reyes _trudging_ , his ever-present aura of confidence and command sloughed off after too many years without rest and strings of challenges tailored to punch him in his soft spots. 

Everyone gets weary, even super-soldiers. Having veins pumped full chemicals and a body pushed past all reasonable limits is nothing, not compared to standing at the head of an organization that requires inhuman nobility and bravery and wisdom, not compared to standing in the gaze of an entire world that expects to see a _hero_. 

The halls of the Watchpoint are empty at this early hour. Watchpoint: Phoenix is lightly staffed to begin with, and the Blackwatch team are sleeping off last night’s injuries. There is no one to observe as Gabe stops by the kitchen for a mug of coffee, his eighth in less than twenty-four hours. thumbing half-heartedly at his phone. 

Anyone passing by the kitchen would have recognized Gabe's closed-off expression and blank glare as signs to find somewhere else to be, anyway, knowing better than to prod at the commander's famous temper when he's already in a foul mood, when there’s the the risk of being delegated one of the thousand small cleanup tasks that remain after last night - bloodstains to scrub, bodies to bury, police to reassure. His coffee has gone from the usual extra-strong dark roast to being essentially an over-large mug of espresso. As the coffee brews his expression changes, fractionally, angry frown turning to something full of slow-burning regret, habitual flat glare turning to a troubled gaze that draws unfamiliar lines into his forehead. He taps at his phone, thumbing at the screen in something that could be interpreted as hesitance, or regret, or longing. But of course no one is there to observe the commander’s change of mood. He shakes himself out of it soon enough, facing the door and leaning against the counter as his expression shifts back to the familiar frown-glare combination, the picture of a demanding commander with too much to do and subordinates who are more trouble than they're worth. He crosses his arms. 

The mug-of-espresso finally brews, and Gabe straightens up, stretching and uncrossing his arms, wincing as his back cracks. The first gulp of coffee is bitter and scalding, and the sudden sensation works to bring him back to wakefulness at least as much as the caffeine does. The taste is strong enough to force its way past the residue of a sleepless night that still carries the tarnished-iron scent of spilled blood, and his eyes drift shut in something resembling pleasure. 

The route to the interrogation cells is long and winding. Watchpoint: Phoenix was not planned well to start with, and many of the facilities used by Blackwatch were tossed in as afterthoughts by some nameless employee who had never taken an architecture class. Gabe sips his coffee slowly as he walks: right, left, take the first staircase, down an interminable hallway filled with flickering lights and grey dreariness, down another stairway shoved into a cramped, unoccupied corner of the base. Finally he stands in front of a heavy door in an unused corridor. Half the lights in this hallway are out, spiders have taken residence in the corners, some pipe has started a slow drip onto the floor. 

He should reprimand the staff here, but he understands that no one wants to think about the hallway of dark rooms with their heavy doors and bolted-down chairs. _We're the heroes, after all_. The thought leaves a taste in his mouth that even overly-strong coffee can't erase.

There's no use delaying. Gabriel unlocks the interrogation room, stepping in and standing just inside the door, watching the kid who claims he's a twenty-three-year-old named Jesse McCree over his mug of coffee. The kid's dozing right now, slumped over in the uncomfortable metal chair. His impractically ragged and black and leathery clothes are splattered with blood and dirt in a way that has nothing to do with terrible fashion decisions and everything to do with losing a fight. Dried blood is flaking off his scraped knuckles and split lip, setting his hair in brittle chunks, turning patches of his cowboy hat rusted brown. He's a mess. 

The kid sleeps light with the sort of paranoia that Gabe appreciates, as though he's used to waking up to a knife at his throat, and he jumps awake when Gabe takes a step forward. He twitches and reaches for a gun that isn't by his side before scanning the room in panic, tugging at his chair to check whether he can use it as a weapon. But the chair is bolted down, of course, and the kid settles for backing into a corner, tension written into every line of his stance, eyes twitching between Gabe and the door. Gabe quells his instinctive urge to shift himself into a fighting stance, instead leaning against a wall and carefully taking another sip of the bitter coffee, casual as can be. He softens his voice as much as possible when he speaks, trying to coax instead of command. 

"So what's your real name?"

There's no response. The kid tenses even more, if possible, obviously torn between bolting for the door and attacking Gabe and curling up in a corner and shutting out the world. Gabe supposes he shouldn't be surprised - it's not like he'd be willing to talk with anyone who busted his organization and threw him into the sort of dark, windowless room that's only used for one thing. He considers the kid for a long minute, and sighs. 

"I suppose Jesse's as good a name as any," he remarks in the kid's general direction. There is a further lack of response. Gabe sips his coffee again, noting that the over-large mug is already almost finished. "This is going well," he remarks softly to the air. The kid stays tensed in a corner, but the franticness in his eyes fades a little, confusion evident instead. 

"You're not in your twenties," Gabe remarks, again speaking to the room as a whole rather than straight towards the kid. Jesse. He doesn't expect a response, but he's gratified to note that Jesse shakes his head minutely, perhaps deciding that this particular lie is too far-fetched to continue. 

Gabe closes his eyes as he finishes off the last of his coffee, grimacing at the residue of coffee grounds in the bottom of his cup. He opens them again to survey Jesse, unsure if his posture has untensed a little or if that's just wishful thinking. Either way, he considers the one-sided discussion surprisingly successful so far. Gabe hasn't been attacked; Jesse hasn't bolted for the door; no emergencies have interrupted them yet. 

It occurs to him just how long he's been on his feet, awake, living off of coffee and the occasional hastily-grabbed sandwich that does nothing to restore his energy. The tiredness is settling into his bones like it never plans to leave, and Jesse is still too scared to talk or move, and in the back of his mind he hears the words from every Overwatch recruitment video, _Be a hero, join Overwatch_. 

So he slumps down the wall until he's sitting on the floor, regrettably empty coffee cup set beside him, head tilted back against the wall and hands folded across his stomach, focuses on slowing down his breathing until he feels strained muscles start to relax. Eventually he hears Jesse shuffle out toward the middle of the room, but Gabe doesn't look around until the noises of the kid shifting around have ceased. He's sitting back down on the metal chair, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees, looking at Gabe instead of the door with the now-familiar mix of fear and curiosity. Gabe decides to risk talking again. "You're, what, seventeen? Eighteen?" he says, not bothering to hide his weariness.

The kid nods, almost imperceptibly. 

"Yeah? Which one? Seventeen or eighteen?"

Jesse glares, as if Gabe is trying to trick him into revealing some sort of vital information, as though asking him to clarify his age is a personal insult. But the glare's intensity fades once it's clear that Gabe isn't going to respond in kind. "...Seventeen," he says, finally. 

"Yeah," Gabe says heavily. "That figures."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, Reyes and McCree are interacting! Jesse's recruitment should wrap up in one more chapter. Still to come: Ana and Fareeha, McCree's first mission, Angela being an exasperated doctor, Jack and Gabe hanging out in person, and much more.
> 
> As always I'm thecaryatid on tumblr.


	5. Chapter 5

They sit in silence, Gabe waiting to see if Jesse’s going to volunteer anything, Jesse likely wondering if Gabe’s tricking him. Jesse is still, not relaxed but not poised on the edge of his chair, which Gabe considers a minor success. 

He’s not sure why Jack is so insistent that Gabe should handle this. It’s true, that Gabe’s better at being charming and making friends. It’s a valuable skill, in his line of work, when nine times out of ten the most important part of a job is convincing someone to give up sensitive information. But Jack’s the golden one, the glowing one, the blond-haired hero with the flowing coat like something out of a superhero flick. Jack doesn’t need to work at being personable, not when he’s on all the posters, not when people fall over themselves for a chance to meet him, not when his intoxicating presence is enough to lower anyone’s guard. 

Gabe has no such glowing aura to fall back on. His reputation for heroism is heavily faded. People don’t fall speechless when he walks into a room. Government officials don’t jump to please him.

He manages. 

The silence between Jesse and Gabe stretches, until the cinderblock wall starts to feel uncomfortable against Gabe’s spine. He wishes for more coffee, considers whether Jesse’s likely to answer more questions. 

“You want anything to eat?”, Gabe says more harshly than he intended. 

Jesse stares, eyes narrowing, doesn’t respond. 

Grimacing, Gabe takes a moment to gentle his tone. “I’ve got a couple things we need to talk about, and I’m not doing that before I get more coffee,” he says, gesturing toward the empty mug. “It’s been a hell of a bad couple days for both of us, I’d say. I need breakfast. You want anything in particular?”

The narrow-eyed glare continues. Gabe’s about to com for more coffee and some eggs and toast when the kid finally speaks up. “What d’you want for it?” He says, hostility apparent in his glare and in his harsh voice and in the way he’s tensing up again. 

Gabe shrugs, purposefully casual. “Nothing. We feed everyone on base.” He catches the continued mistrust in Jesse’s narrow eyes and clenched fists. “Consider it a trade for your real age,” he says, tone even. “The kitchen’s stocked pretty well. You want eggs? Potatoes?” Gabe smiles wryly, able to see the humor in Blackwatch’s commander taking breakfast orders for a Deadlock kid. 

“...yeah,” Jesse finally says. The suspicion hasn’t faded, but he seems to have decided that Gabe won’t do anything worse right now than not deliver the promised breakfast. “And bacon.” 

“We can do that,” Gabe says. He considers getting some employee to make the trek down to the interrogation rooms, decides that most of them are more likely to get lost on the way than to show up with a breakfast tray. Still, he might as well com ahead. “I need the cook to make sure there’s enough eggs, potatoes, bacon, and toast for two,” he says into the com. “And as much coffee as you can brew.” 

He gathers up his coffee cup and stands up, signaling his movements as obviously as possible, noting that Jesse still tenses like he’s ready to bolt or fight. “I’m gonna leave you in here for a few minutes, kid. I’ll be back with breakfast for us. You want anything else? Coffee?” 

Jesse nods vaguely. “I’ll bring the whole pot,” Gabe says, considering how much they’re likely to go through. Damn caffeine wasn’t strong enough even before he got turned into whatever fucking super-soldier he’s supposed to be now. He turns to leave. Behind him, the kid finally speaks up again. “M’ name’s _Jesse_ ” he says, apparently annoyed enough to snap at his jailer. 

Gabe bites back a laugh, but he smiles as he leaves, carefully locking the door behind him. 

 

It’s more like an hour before Gabe gets back to the forgotten hallway with breakfast. As always, he runs into a dozen small delays that he should have anticipated. A lieutenant needs clarification on where exactly to bury some bodies; a medic needs someone to authorize surgeries (and Gabe makes a mental note to bring that up with Jack and Ana - the medical staff deal with enough without having to hunt down senior personnel to authorize procedures). 

He takes a few minutes to text Jack, in a moment of mingled responsibility and weakness. _Talking with the Deadlock kid. He’s seventeen. Jumpy, but I think he’ll be receptive to an offer._ There’s a moment of hesitation before he follows with another message. _Miss you._

It’s a minute before his phone buzzes with Jack’s response. _Good. Let me know if there are any more complications. Call me tonight?_

Gabe would deny how broadly he smiles at the text. _If cleanup’s going smoothly_ , he promises, before tucking the phone back in a hoodie pocket and finally making it to the kitchens, where piles of breakfast food are waiting as promised. The coffee is going lukewarm already, and he nearly spits it out after taking a sip, then just brews a fresh pot himself and snatches someone’s abandoned thermos to carry it in. 

He heads down to the basements again, finally, overloaded tray of breakfast food and full thermos of sinfully strong coffee in hand. He abandons his usual whisper-quiet stride as he approaches the room Jesse’s in, not wanting to startle the kid into doing something stupid. The fumbling attempts to unlock and open the door are unfeigned, occupied as his hands are with the food. Jesse’s standing back, cautiously eyeing the door when Gabe finally gets it open. 

“There were a few delays,” Gabe says tiredly. He looks for a place to set down the tray, realizes there’s no table, and settles for the floor. He sighs at the lack of a chair sinks down on one side of the tray, pouring himself some coffee, picking up a plate and fork and shoveling some of the food onto it. He leaves most of the breakfast for Jesse. The kid must be starving, and Gabe’s reached the point of exhaustion where he’s not sure he has the energy to digest anything. 

Jesse is still standing against the wall, eyeing the tray ravenously, but glancing at Gabe suspiciously every time it looks like he might edge forward. Gabe pretends not to notice as he yawns dramatically and scoots back toward the wall furthest from Jesse, settling against the cinder blocks and taking a bite of egg despite his lack of hunger.

It only takes a moment for Jesse to slip forward, now that the tray is out of Gabe’s reach. He splays himself down awkwardly and fills the second plate with as much food as will fit. He eats ravenously, even forgetting to glare at Gabe as he inhales a small mountain of eggs and bacon. 

Gabe sips his refilled mug of coffee slowly, trying to hide his own increasing tension. _Deadlock_ , he thinks bitterly, revising his opinion of the gang even further downward.

At least the kid is comfortable enough to eat what he’s offered. At least he hasn’t attacked, or tried to run. At least his hostility seems like something that exists in general, rather than an emotion targeted specifically towards Overwatch.

“What was Deadlock like?”, Gabe asks finally, once Jesse has started to slow down. “How’d you join?” 

The suspicion is back immediately, like it never left. 

“You don’t have to answer,” Gabe says, “but it’s an honest question.” 

Silence. 

Gabe leans his head back against the uncomfortable wall, staring up at the cracked ceiling. “Hell. I’m not planning to hurt you, you know,” he says, the attempted comfort coming out more like resignation.  
Jack’s wrong. He’s no good at this. 

Jesse stares back. Is it wishful thinking, or does something soften a little in his gaze? Is the tension starting to fade, or is Gabe just seeing what he wants to? 

Finally, a response: “Seemed the thing to do,” Jesse says, practically no response at all. 

Gabe wishes getting words out of Jesse wasn’t so much like pulling teeth. “Yeah? For who? You got a family, kid?” 

Jesse shrugs, folding further in on himself, staring down at the floor. 

“Okay,” Gabe says, exasperation starting to bleed into his voice. “How about a more practical question? What can you do? What are you good at?” 

The startelement is clear; Jesse hadn’t expected to be asked about his skills. 

“You’re a hell of a shot, I know that,” Gabe prompts.

“I’m a gunslinger,” Jesse replies, looking up with the first smile Gabe’s seen on him. It’s a grin, sharp and proud and devil-may-care, as though wild pride is the only thing in him stronger than his conviction that everything around him wishes him ill. “The best shot in Deadlock.”

Gabe chuckles, letting his amusement at Jesse’s pride show on the softening lines of his face. “Bet some of the older members didn’t like that. No one wants to be shown up by a kid.”

“I’m _not_ a kid,” Jesse snaps; apparently fear doesn’t count for much against the prompting of wounded pride. “But I’m better than them. I _was_ better than them - “ he breaks off, wild-eyed again, no doubt remembering the ruined headquarters he’d called home, last seen with broken bodies scattered around it and Gabe himself ripping apart the rest of Deadlock. 

“Yeah,” Gabe says, gentling. “You were smart enough to get the hell out of the firefight, grab some buddies, flank us.” He considers his mug, still half-filled with coffee, but somehow he’s lost his taste for it just as much as he’s lost his taste for solid food. “Sorry about that.” The muttered apology is as genuine as it is painful, the fact of necessity never quite dampening discomfort of ripping apart hideout after hideout.

“How the fuck are you sorry? I’ll _show_ you sorry -”

Jesse looks like he’s about to lunge forward over the emptied tray of breakfast food, renewed fear and fury washing away exhaustion and tentative trust. Gabe sighs. “You’re not gonna win a fight with me,” he says. “And I don’t want to fight you. I’d rather talk. But if you need to convince yourself…” he shrugs.

Jesse pauses, tense, on his feet now, apparently confused by Gabe’s lack of response. “You’re bluffing,” he hisses, failing to mask his uncertainty. “You’re just an old soldier who doesn't know how to fight without a gun in your hand. You’ve got people to do that sort of work, huh?” Still, he doesn’t move forward, doesn’t attack. 

Gabe’s dry chuckle has no humor in it. “You get used to death threats in my line of work. I’ve gotten pretty good at sorting the real ones out from the fake ones. So if you’ve decided not to try kilingl me…” he trails off, watching Jesse expectantly. 

Confusion is evident in the tilt of Jesse’s head, like he would never expect someone to respond so calmly to a near attack. He sits down, takes more food, eats. The tension that was written into every line of his stance is starting to fade, for real this time, as he apparently decides that whatever else Gabe is, he’s not an immediate threat. Finally Jesse finishes, clearing off the impressive amount of breakfast food and sitting back expectantly, head tilted to one side, looking directly at Gabe as though he knows that some sort of resolution needs to happen. Gabe complies. 

“You have a couple options,” Gabe starts, not sure how to soften the announcement. “You know we’re with Overwatch. Everything we do is scrutinized, and I can’t just let you walk.” 

Jesse’s mouth is drawn into a solemn line, eyes lowered now, surprisingly devoid of anger. He looks miserable, as though he’s reaching some sort of forgone conclusion, as though he always expected to end up marched into a jail cell at the age of seventeen. As though it’s as inevitable as the noose on the end of a gallows. Gabe’s stomach clenches. 

“So. Option one, I hand you over to some government types who’ll lock you up somewhere dark and secure. They won’t need to go through the legal system, not for a kid who doesn’t have a record of existing before he joined Deadlock. They’ll assume you’re a murderer,” and Gabe knows he’s being callous, knows that he and Jack and Ana could convince any agency to err on the side of leniency. But dammit, he wants the kid to make the right choice, and he’s pushing the only way he can. “Then there’s option two.” 

Jesse shudders, like he expects option two involve a freshly-made corpse and a pair of cinderblocks and a lake that no one would ever care to dredge up. 

“Option two, you join us.” 

He startles upwards, staring at Gabe in mingled anger and disbelief. “Thought Overwatch was for _heroes_ ,” he says, disdain and jagged pain edging the words. “You don’t want me.” It’s not an argument, or a plea, or a rebuttal. It’s a statement of fact, spoken with as much certainty as if some god handed the words down carved into a stone slab. 

Well. Gabe expected anger, frustration, maybe sardonic laughter, maybe an actual attack. He did not expect this, and as he watches the hunched-over, bloodstained kid in front of him, it occurs to him that this might be the most painful way this could have gone. 

Still, pragmatism wins out, as it so often does. Gabe takes another sip of coffee and forces a chuckle. “I’m not Overwatch, kid, I’m Blackwatch. We’re the behind-the-scenes crew. Stealth missions, cleanups, black ops of all kinds,” and it’s never been easier to keep the bitterness out of his voice, now that the shadowy organization is the only home he can offer and the only home that Jesse might agree to take. 

“You seem like a hell of a good recruit, honestly. You’ve got an instinct for strategy, not to mention you’ve already got better aim than half my strike team.” 

Jesse eyes are wide and shocked, like this is the last thing that could happen in any world. “Blackwatch,” he repeats, tasting the word. 

“You’ll have to stay down here for a day or two while I get some security clearances sorted out, but yes. You’d be Blackwatch, answerable to me. Already cleared it with my commanding officer, honestly,” and Gabe winces a bit at the generous description of his conversation with Jack and _figure something out_ and _this will come back to burn you, Gabe_. 

Jesse still looks shell-shocked, too stunned to form any questions, perhaps too fearful that a misstep might end with the offer snatched away. Gabe takes it upon himself to elaborate.

“Upshot is you’d get a place to stay, steady meals, training, a salary. Protection from anyone who might have cause to hurt you. In exchange, you go on missions, gather information, and kill people who need killing.” The words are grimmer than flakes of ash in his mouth, but there’s no way to soften the statement without feeling like a liar. Jesse’s nodding anyway, eyes still wild.

“That a yes?” Gabe’s not quite willing to take a hesitant nod from what’s technically still a prisoner as a legally-binding contract. 

Apparently he’s not going to get anything else out of Jesse at the moment, since the response is another hesitant nod. Gabe sighs, decides it’s good enough for now, and searches through his pockets until he finds a spare communicator. He fiddles with the settings while he talks. 

“Like I said, it’ll take a couple days to get the details sorted out. You’ll have to stay down here until then. I’ll have someone bring down some blankets and extra clothes. You need anything else, got questions, whatever,” he tosses the newly reconfigured com to Jesse, who catches it despite his surprise, “that’s a direct line to me. Use it.” 

Jesse eyes the com warily, but holds onto it anyway. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?” he asks.

Rewinding the last couple hours, Gabe realizes that he never did introduce himself. He blames it on the tiredness. “Gabriel Reyes,” he says. “Blackwatch is mine.” 

The kid gives a half-suppressed noise of amusement. “ _Really_? Who died and made you king?”, and cracks up at his own terrible joke. 

The interrogation room is still as oppressive as ever, with its cracked ceiling and harsh light and exposed toilet in one corner, but the self-proclaimed gunslinger doubles over in laughter, his tension breaking all at once. Gabe eyes the kid, taking in the sharp-edged mirth against tired eyes and bloodstained clothes. He sighs, decides it’s as good a time as ever to make his exit. 

“I need to go play damage control,” he says, standing slowly and turning towards the door. As he exits, he throws a sardonic salute over his shoulder at the still-laughing gunslinger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving across the country got in the way of writing for the last week. I should be back to a quicker update schedule. 
> 
> All of the thanks to [rainglazed](http://www.rainglazed.tumblr.com) for being awesome and to [overgosh's overwatch timeline](http://overgosh.tumblr.com/post/147524579927/overgoshs-overwatch-timeline-the-information)!
> 
> I'm [thecaryatid](http://www.thecaryatid.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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